The great thing about being in South East Asia is that amazing things can happen without any warning or precedent. This morning, for example, we were having breakfast at a table on the sidewalk, when a commotion took our interest. Whirling down the street at relatively low speed was a fighting trio made up of one man and two women (both of whom were in what looked like pajamas). The floral woman had the woman in green by the shirt while simultaneously pummeling the man with her other hand. The man was trying to stiff arm the floral woman while sort of protecting the woman in green, all with a completely impassive face. The floral woman was shouting and occasionally brandishing a motorbike helmet which she used to strike the man on the top of the head.
The trio was in the middle of the small side street where we were dining, not more than 15 feet away, and for more than twenty minutes their domestic dispute continued. A crowd gathered to watch, with absolutely no intention of interfering. One helpful spectator explained to us that the floral woman was the man's wife, with many small children, while the woman in green was his girlfriend (or possibly second wife). If two men or two women were fighting, he related, then people would break it up, but since this was a family issue, no one would get involved. An older woman in polka dots approached and did get involved - the mother-in-law. She promptly hit the man over the head with open palms and then bit him on the forearm. Things were escalating and the crowd was growing. Tourists were snapping photos, shop owners running down the street to get a better look. Finally, the whirling domestic dispute crashed into a parked motorbike, knocking it over and threatening to topple a couple of tables. The street fighters moved out to the main street, causing a traffic jam and a chorus of loud honking. We returned to our noodle soup to finish our breakfast and wonder how the guy was going to get out of this one. Without much commotion or any police involvement, the fight was over and the disappointed crowds returned to their morning routines.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Environmental Proselytizing
On the beautiful island of Phu Quoc, we signed up for a snorkeling trip. On this snorkeling trip we stopped at three small islands to snorkel around the coral. Phu Quoc's snorkeling is reported to be some of the best in the world and we were very excited. Here is where it gets ugly; of the three stops, only one of them had coral that was still alive and it was also dying. The boat we were in anchored on the coral itself, never mentioned to anyone "don't touch or stand on the coral". We also all fished off the boat and caught tiny fish which were not thrown back. I don't know what happened to them but they were clearly not full grown.
A guy who worked at our hotel came to our porch after we came back to talk to us. He said that he used to lead snorkeling trips where he was careful to not anchor on coral, he never took his boat fishing for small fish and always explained to people not to disturb anything while snorkeling. He said 90% of the coral around Phu Quoc was dead (I am always sceptical and this guy seemed a little off so who knows about the numbers) and that he was put out of business, in fact he was verbally threatened by the tourist mafia that runs the island. I could certainly see there being a mafia of that kind here.
I say all this to share what we've learned with other potential travelers. One of the best thing anyone can do for the environment when traveling is to use companies that act responsibly, unlike the one we ended up participating in. This is not easily done in places like Vietnam and may require more research beforehand. Spending an afternoon swimming around looking at dead coral is a very depressing and consciousness raising sight.
A guy who worked at our hotel came to our porch after we came back to talk to us. He said that he used to lead snorkeling trips where he was careful to not anchor on coral, he never took his boat fishing for small fish and always explained to people not to disturb anything while snorkeling. He said 90% of the coral around Phu Quoc was dead (I am always sceptical and this guy seemed a little off so who knows about the numbers) and that he was put out of business, in fact he was verbally threatened by the tourist mafia that runs the island. I could certainly see there being a mafia of that kind here.
I say all this to share what we've learned with other potential travelers. One of the best thing anyone can do for the environment when traveling is to use companies that act responsibly, unlike the one we ended up participating in. This is not easily done in places like Vietnam and may require more research beforehand. Spending an afternoon swimming around looking at dead coral is a very depressing and consciousness raising sight.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Motorbikin' Phu Quoc: Not a Cake Walk
After an overnight bus ride in which the driver, and perhaps everyone else (?) watched a Vietnamese stand-up comedy duo the whole 7 hours, we pulled up to the ferry which was to wisk us off to our final beach chapter of our travels on Phu Quoc island.
We stayed at a little resort right on a quiet beach. It was serene and amazing. The water - clear and calm and perfect for lazy swimming. Hammocks and yes . . . long walks on the beach were in order for the first day. Then it was time for adventure.
We rented motorbikes for our second day to make the long trip around the island. The road into our little beach area was under construction and exsisted only as a incomplete dirt road but the one into town, though busy, was paved. We made our way through the busy streets of town quite compitently (even with the school children all bicycling home at noon) and then hit a dirt, though still smoothish, road. There was a little hesitation, but we ventured on, not caring that our clothes would be caked in dust. We were having a day of island adventure! The further we got from town, the fewer other motorbikes we saw and the worse the road conditions became. Soon the "road" dissolved into what were essentially a series of steep, sandy, dried out riverbed gullies with makeshift stick bridges at the bottom. The water had created all sorts of "thrilling" obsticles to weave around and basically gun-it over in the hopes that you make it successfully to the other side. The first one was sort of funny/rediculous, the second more of a personal challenge, by the third we were pretty exhausted by the focus it takes to get through these damn things and by the forth, Kyle tipped and began to have technical difficulties. The next series of dips took us in a detour around what was a totally insane and washed out former "road." The detour was only slightly more passable. Our mouths hung open as we looked at what could have been, and then at what was.
To be honest, things began looking a little bleak at this point. We were 30km from anywhere, Kyle's bike wouldn't start, Kate had tipped over when she looked back and saw Kyle tipped over and both were a little shaken. Oh, and it was HOT. And storm clouds had been threatening for the better part of an hour. After giving the bikes (and ourselves) some time to cool down, and watching a couple of seasoned motorbike veterans with old ladies on the bike tackle the next arroyo, Kyle's bike miraculously started again. We were back on our way.
The road began to improve (no more dry riverbeds from hell) and we made it to a town. Actually, it was three buildings and a beach, but we drank a warm 7 up and were poked by the local children long enough to decide we could finish our loop. 15 kilometers down the road, in what looked to be the absolute middle of no where, a man on crutches with one leg emerged from the dense jungle and waved us down. Kate thoughtfully offered for Kyle to give him a ride to the next town, where he apparently had an appointment for coffee. After depositing him at his destination and declining his kind invitation for a drink, we continued on our way, smiling a little more.
We made it back to the main town, Duong Don, and Kate's bike began stalling at intersections. This is a terrifying prospect in a land which follows NO road rules. We expertly navigated past a market, over a bridge, through the town, and we almost home, when Kate's bike comletely died about 50 meters from the hotel. She pushed it home and the hotel propreitor looked up from his hammock, apparently unsurprised by this turn of events. "No working? Yeah."
With broken bike returned, we went for a victory swim to rinse off the day's dust and grime before beginning cocktail hour. We toasted, from our hammocks, our survival and the end of our motorbike riding for a good long time.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saigon Sojourn
Due to unforesenn visa complications and the nefarious actions of one very bad man in Mui Ne, we came to Saigon earlier than we expected to sort ourselves out. Since we're seasoned travelers with only 10 days of our trip remaining, we were unphased by this change of plans. We even enjoyed our overnight bus trip and the hour of early morning park sitting we experienced while waiting for a room to be ready. We are really getting the hang of this.
Speaking of parks, the Vietnamese are all about the communal open space, and Saigon is no exception. There are a fair number of lovely parks with huge, old trees and large numbers of people stretching and playing badminton in them. Swarming around these parks are 3 million (literally) motorbikes - even after 4 months of SE Asian travel, the site is astounding. Every street crossing is a life-affirming victory.
After fixing our visa issues for good with a not evil Saigonian, we embarked on a self-guided tour of the city, beginning with the Independence Palace. Rebuilt in the early 1960s, it is a tribute to the architectural excentricities of the time. The furniture is strait out of a Bond movie, particularly the corduroy chairs in the Official Gambling Room. There is a helipad on the roof, adjacent to the minibar and dance floor. The high-tech equipment is all in the basement, including a room full of type writers and an array of pastel rotary phones. Very impressive.
Looking at the darker side of the 1960s, we moved on to the War Remnants Museum. Although we of course knew what the American army did to Vietnam during the war, the museum was a powerful and disheartening reminder, particularly the section on the effects of Agent Orange. Children in the areas sprayed with the chemical are still being born with horrible birth defects, and military personell who handled the chemicals were also effected. Pretty graphic and scary images made us astounded by how nice and friendly the Vietnamese are to us American travelers.
Its really, really hot and we went to see a movie for the air conditioning. It was totally worth it.
Today we took the obligatory trip to the Cu Chi tunnels, for which we were forced to break our No Tour rule (or shell out an unreasonable amount of dong for a private driver). About 30 kilometers outside of Saigon, the Cu Chi villagers built a network of tunnels and bunkers that were more than 200 kilometers long. The Viet Cong used the tunnels during the American War to launch guerilla attacks, carry supplies around, and generally live in since the Americans were bombing the hell out of their villages. Going into the tunnels gave us a serious appreciation for the dedication of the Vietnamese people, and the tinyness of their bodies. The tunnels are 2 feet wide and 2 1/2 feet tall, swelteringly hot, and generally unbearble. We were in them for about 5 minutes, which was plenty. VC soldiers and civilians lived there for months at a time.
We're taking an overnight bus (just can't get enough) to the coast tonight in order to get to Phu Quoc Island, so we've been killing time this afternoon wandering around the alleys of our neighborhood. We happened upon a haircutting shop, and since Kyle's hair was both way too long and pretty dirty, she got a haircut. Which came, inexplicably, with a face massage. Its a nice way to get clean when you don't have a hotel room, though its a little odd to have your hair blowdried and looking fabulous when, from the neck down, you are a filthy slob.
Speaking of parks, the Vietnamese are all about the communal open space, and Saigon is no exception. There are a fair number of lovely parks with huge, old trees and large numbers of people stretching and playing badminton in them. Swarming around these parks are 3 million (literally) motorbikes - even after 4 months of SE Asian travel, the site is astounding. Every street crossing is a life-affirming victory.
After fixing our visa issues for good with a not evil Saigonian, we embarked on a self-guided tour of the city, beginning with the Independence Palace. Rebuilt in the early 1960s, it is a tribute to the architectural excentricities of the time. The furniture is strait out of a Bond movie, particularly the corduroy chairs in the Official Gambling Room. There is a helipad on the roof, adjacent to the minibar and dance floor. The high-tech equipment is all in the basement, including a room full of type writers and an array of pastel rotary phones. Very impressive.
Looking at the darker side of the 1960s, we moved on to the War Remnants Museum. Although we of course knew what the American army did to Vietnam during the war, the museum was a powerful and disheartening reminder, particularly the section on the effects of Agent Orange. Children in the areas sprayed with the chemical are still being born with horrible birth defects, and military personell who handled the chemicals were also effected. Pretty graphic and scary images made us astounded by how nice and friendly the Vietnamese are to us American travelers.
Its really, really hot and we went to see a movie for the air conditioning. It was totally worth it.
Today we took the obligatory trip to the Cu Chi tunnels, for which we were forced to break our No Tour rule (or shell out an unreasonable amount of dong for a private driver). About 30 kilometers outside of Saigon, the Cu Chi villagers built a network of tunnels and bunkers that were more than 200 kilometers long. The Viet Cong used the tunnels during the American War to launch guerilla attacks, carry supplies around, and generally live in since the Americans were bombing the hell out of their villages. Going into the tunnels gave us a serious appreciation for the dedication of the Vietnamese people, and the tinyness of their bodies. The tunnels are 2 feet wide and 2 1/2 feet tall, swelteringly hot, and generally unbearble. We were in them for about 5 minutes, which was plenty. VC soldiers and civilians lived there for months at a time.
We're taking an overnight bus (just can't get enough) to the coast tonight in order to get to Phu Quoc Island, so we've been killing time this afternoon wandering around the alleys of our neighborhood. We happened upon a haircutting shop, and since Kyle's hair was both way too long and pretty dirty, she got a haircut. Which came, inexplicably, with a face massage. Its a nice way to get clean when you don't have a hotel room, though its a little odd to have your hair blowdried and looking fabulous when, from the neck down, you are a filthy slob.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Biking with Vihnny
Taking motorized transportation is so 20th century. In this age of green living, conscientious 20 somethings like us get there using the most renewable of resources: human power. Ok, there was a van lurking behind us the entire 160 kilometer trip, probably burning more gas than the bus, and it was mostly down hill, but still. We are Portlanders, and we miss our bicycles, and so we decided to bike it from Dalat to Mui Ne, cost be damned.
We started out bright and early with a short but harrowing ride out of the city and into the beautiful rolling hills of flower farms that surround Dalat. Our guide Vihn (or Vihnny, if you're from Jersey) was nice, polite, and shy, and dutifully showed us the tourist spots along the way. We stopped at the rice hooch making shop (very strong), the silk making factory (very mechanical), and Elephant Waterfall (very liquidy). Then we hit the sweet part of the day - an enormous downhill on windy roads with fantastic views of the hills and valley. What goes down must, even from the mountains to the coast, go up, and we had a significant climb before lunch. We inhaled a pile of bread, cheese, and veggies while the rainclouds approached, and waited out 2 hours of massive storm. Then we got back on the bikes for the last 30 kilometers of the day.
The best thing about bicycling in rural areas is definitely the Stare Down. The further from major cities you get, the better the Stare Down becomes. The very old and the very young are the best practitioners of the Stare Down, but it can be effectively executed by almost anyone. The Stare Down is total, unabashed, full faced staring at us that cannot be deterred by any amount of reciprocal eye contact, smiling, waving, or greeting. There are two prominent forms that the Stare Down can take, the first being the Cross the Street Stare Down. The Starer (usually elderly) spots us about a block away, and begins to stare. While maintaining eye contact, he or she crosses the street in front of us, sometimes necessitating a brake or swerve from oncoming traffic. Once safely across the street, presumably at a better staring vantage point, the Starer continues the stare. The second and most unnerving case is the Moto Approach Stare. A family on a moto approaches us on the left as we're riding, and intends to pass us. However, upon seeing that we are Stare-worthy, the moto pulls along side and maintains our speed to get a good look. The child in the front and the one hanging onto the back generally employ the Open-Mouthed Stare, sometimes accompanied by the Point. The adults, both driver and passenger, silently and unwaveringly practice the classic Stare. This move can go on for upwards of a kilometer, and is sometimes finished with an audible laugh before they finally complete their pass. It makes us feel connected to the local people.
After many staring encounters, we spent the night in Di Linh, a little town of mostly farmers. Exhausted by our day, we ate early and went to bed. At breakfast the next morning, Kyle turned to Kate with an audible, "Oh, no." She had just rubbed her eye with the hand she had recently used to spread chili seeds on her baguette. A comical few minutes of running around the courtyard (didn't help), splashing water on her eye (made things worse), running blindly across the road, and generally freaking out in the hotel room resulted in Kyle being down one contact and swollen-eyed for the second day of riding. Off to a not so auspicious start, we began the ride with a few kilometers of rolling hills and then a seriously steep 5 kilometer climb. Luckily, the scenery made up for the heat and incline, and we had lunch on the ridge of the mountain with puppies and pigs all around. The best part of the day was the 11 kilometer downhill, accompanied by amazing views (that were luckily on the non-chili-afflicted side). As we descended, the heat of the lowlands was like opening the oven door to check on your delicious batch of cookies, except without the promise of baked goods. It was seriously hot. We finished with a really, really, really hot 25 kilometers of flat ride. We were tired and sweaty but certainly victorious as we found a hotel in Mui Ne and bid Vinnhy a fond farewell.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Dalatful
Dalat is the honeymoon capital of Vietnam - which is kind of surprising when you first roll into town. At first glance, this is a hilly city that seems to have grown up in the last 20 years, with newly constructed houses and storefronts more from the utilitarian than picturesque school of design. But Dalat is surrounded by beautiful countryside and claims a central lake and golf course, as well as some swanky hotels we have not been inside. Many tourists get a motorcycle guide to see the temples and waterfalls of the surrounding areas, but since we have sworn off tours, we are officially charting our own course.
On day one in Dalat, we embarked on foot for Crazy House. This house/hotel/tourist attraction/architectural wonder lives up to its name. Think Gaudi meets Dali paintings with sequins and a little bit of the Flintstones thrown in for good measure. There are staircases that lead to no where. There are cubby holes with tiny tables and strangely configured windows. The bedrooms have animal shaped fireplaces and mirrors on the ceilings above the beds. There is a giraffe entangled in one stairway, and half of the building is still under construction. Basically, one climbs around the house and exclaims, "This place is crazy!" And if you're planning a trip, you can stay in one of the animal-themed rooms. It was like nothing we've yet seen on this trip.
The next day we decided to climb a nearby mountain for what was described as a "nice three hour hike." We hired some moto drivers to take us out to the park, and began our climb on a steep paved road, while jeeps and other motos whizzed by. Kyle was a little disappointed in the asphaltyness of the hike, until we turned onto the trail that lead to the peak - only 3 kilometers away. We can do this, we thought, despite the massive uphill we'd already conquered. The trail had a slight incline and lovely views, and we joked about the far-off mountain we were happy to not be climbing. Think again, ladies, as that indeed was our destination. It soon became apparent that this would not be as easy as we had anticipated, but we remained in good spirits until the final 500 meters of pretty much vertical climb. We were determined to beat the mountain, but this was not what we had intended. We huffed and puffed and swore and took many breaks. And then we finally reached the top, sweaty and out of breath, only to encounter 25 Vietnamese teenagers. They were having a picnic, complete with portable stove and wok full of noodles. As expected, they giggled, practiced their English phrases, and took many pictures with us that prominently featured the peace sign. Our pride was a little bruised, but we were still happy to enjoy the incredible panoramic view of the valley and Dalat. And to be going downhill for the second half of the hike.
Day three in Dalat we decided to explore the town on 2 wheels and one vehicle - a tandem bicycle. Neither of us had ever ridden a bicycle built for two, but we figured we could easily ride it in traffic the hilly 6 kilometers to a nearby lake. After our initial attempts at starting, we scaled back our plans to just bike around Dalat's central lake. On the sidewalk. We spent the better part of the day wobbling around and around the lake while making beeping noises at oblivious pedestrians. Starting and stopping were difficult, and hills were unfathomable. We pretty much got the hang of it, but switching steerers set us back. By the end of the day, we could safely navigate even the narrowest side walks. We have really picked up a lot of new skills on this trip.
Tomorrow, we leave for the coast on a 2 day mountain bike adventure. Its a lot of kilometers, but we're convinced they're mostly down hill. At least we'll each have our own ride.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Overnight bus but the beach is worth it
Departing lovely Hoi An, we boarded the trusty overnight bus and settled in for a bumpy and mostly sleepless night. Six in the morning found us pulling into Nah Trang, a biggish city with a beautiful beach at dawn.
Nah Trang was not on our list of cities to visit, as its large and fairly developed beachfront just looked a little too much for us, but we figured getting on another 5 hour bus ride after an overnight ride was just too cruel. What with our upcoming visa extension, we figured we had time for an extra day here in Nah Trang. Thank goodness we did!
Nah Trang is actually quite a lovely city - big and bustling but clean and has a great beach. The only other big city with beachfront we have seen was Kuta in Bali which was extremely polluted, crawling with tacky tourists and gross chain restaurants. Nah Trang is a big city but doesn't seem to have too much overwhelming tourism and what it does have, like the parasailing, windsurfing, sailing and scuba diving, seems to help keep this waterfront and beach lively, well used and clean!!
We spent the afternoon at a hot springs resort about 10 minutes outside of town. There was a 7 step regiment for optimal health benefits from this mud bath/mineral soak wonderland. We were ushered into a tub with a Vietnamese couple which was full of cool liquid mud the consistency of a chocolate shake. A somewhat awkward 15 minute soak in this small muddy bathtub with another couple involved all of us pouring pails of mud over our arms, chests, and backs. Most local people were in shorts and tank tops and we quickly figured out why. The mud got well trapped in our suits, especially between the layers of the lining and the outside, and made us both a muddy, saggy, bloated mess! In this goopy state, we were instructed to sit in the sun for 10 minutes before rinsing. The ground and rocks were so hot from the super-charged sun we were forced to hop from foot to foot to not burn our feet. Quite a sight.
After a thorough mineral shower rinse, we were hustled into a 3 foot wide channel of rocks which sprayed water at you from all sides - imagine car wash meets leaky dam. After the pressure wash, we were pointed towards larger mineral hot tubs to soak with more strangers. After that, on to the big, but still hot, soaking pool. Keep in mind that it's a good 85-90 degrees out so at this point, we were not only pretty pruney but quite thoroughly cooked. We cut short our 7 steps to mineral-induced health and headed home feeling silky smooth with just a few pockets of mud in our ears.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cooking with the Militant Chef
Vietnam, I praise you extensively for your use of the night bus. Its time efficient and saves me the cost of a night's lodging. But it does leave me with the odd space of a day on my hands without the refuge of a grubby hotel room. Thus, it was decided that a day-long cooking course would be perfect before embarking on a night-long bus journey. And it was perfect, and involved the wonderful character of the Militant Chef. This is his story.
The Militant Chef works at a cooking school about 4 km down river from Hoi An proper. His minions take care of the shopping and cleaning and shuttling of customers, the welcome drinks and market tours and herb sampling that are required for an up-market foodie extravaganza. The Militant Chef stays in the demonstration area with his personal knife and his clipboards full of recipes. The Militant Chef has terrible teeth.
After his class has been assembled and properly pampered by people that smile and crack terrible jokes, the Militant Chef approaches his counter, checking his reflection in the angled mirror above him. His smock and apron are spotless; his prep bowls have been laid out with spices and sauces. The Militant Chef does not introduce himself or smile. His tone is somewhere between aggressive and bored. He chops and slices and assembles, using only the number of words required to describe exactly what he is doing. He finishes each dish with the phrase, "Now Get up! Leave everything!" His pupils frantically place their clipboards and cameras on their chairs before scurrying to their cooking stations. "Oil, now! Chop finely! More finely!" He stalks up and down the row of burners, shaking his head. Under their breath, people refer to the Militant Chef as Gordon Raimsey of reality television's Hell's Kithcen. The Militant Chef is not amused.
One pretty little blond student thinks that 2 cloves of garlic might be enough for her eggplant dish, and it had been a mistake to place 3 cloves on her prep plate. The Militant Chef stalks over and points a long finger at the remaining clove, staring the student accusingly in the eye. He looks at the clove. He looks at the student. No words need be exchanged - the student chops the garlic without protest, being sure to chop it very finely indeed.
When all dishes have been cooked, the class adjourns to the dining area to feast on their creations. The students mingle and chatter, complementing their food with local La Rue beer. The Militant Chef does not join them. The Militant Chef does not wish them bon appetite. The Militant Chef polishes his chopping knife in anticipation of his afternoon class.
The Militant Chef works at a cooking school about 4 km down river from Hoi An proper. His minions take care of the shopping and cleaning and shuttling of customers, the welcome drinks and market tours and herb sampling that are required for an up-market foodie extravaganza. The Militant Chef stays in the demonstration area with his personal knife and his clipboards full of recipes. The Militant Chef has terrible teeth.
After his class has been assembled and properly pampered by people that smile and crack terrible jokes, the Militant Chef approaches his counter, checking his reflection in the angled mirror above him. His smock and apron are spotless; his prep bowls have been laid out with spices and sauces. The Militant Chef does not introduce himself or smile. His tone is somewhere between aggressive and bored. He chops and slices and assembles, using only the number of words required to describe exactly what he is doing. He finishes each dish with the phrase, "Now Get up! Leave everything!" His pupils frantically place their clipboards and cameras on their chairs before scurrying to their cooking stations. "Oil, now! Chop finely! More finely!" He stalks up and down the row of burners, shaking his head. Under their breath, people refer to the Militant Chef as Gordon Raimsey of reality television's Hell's Kithcen. The Militant Chef is not amused.
One pretty little blond student thinks that 2 cloves of garlic might be enough for her eggplant dish, and it had been a mistake to place 3 cloves on her prep plate. The Militant Chef stalks over and points a long finger at the remaining clove, staring the student accusingly in the eye. He looks at the clove. He looks at the student. No words need be exchanged - the student chops the garlic without protest, being sure to chop it very finely indeed.
When all dishes have been cooked, the class adjourns to the dining area to feast on their creations. The students mingle and chatter, complementing their food with local La Rue beer. The Militant Chef does not join them. The Militant Chef does not wish them bon appetite. The Militant Chef polishes his chopping knife in anticipation of his afternoon class.
Hoi Hoi Hoi An
We love Hoi An - how could you not? The old section is full of small cobblestone streets with wooden shop fronts - nothing over two stories - and a riverfront with great restaurants. There are a few Hoi An specialty foods that you can't get anywhere else, such as white rose, which are the closest thing we've found to Kyle's favorite chinese dumplings. Kate has had the local noodle dish, lau cao, at least once a day. And a flat 4 kilometer bike ride brings you to a lovely strip of beach with refreshingly cool water. The sun has reappeared after a nearly 2 week hiatus. We hear there are historical places to see. Things are good.
It should not be overlooked that Hoi An is also the tailoring center of Vietnam. There are about 150 shops dedicated to making custom tailored clothing of all types, particularly and inexplicably wool jackets. As our return to reality approaches, we recognized some glaring holes in our (well, Kyle's) domestic wardrobe. So Kyle got a 3 piece pinstripe suit with the idea that looking respectable will make her more employable. And being that we're in our 20s and its Spring, wedding season is upon us, so Kyle got a custom-made little silver number. Kate's obsession with outerwear led to the Great Jacket Hunt of 2009, which was completed in the sweaty 90 degree heat of mid-day mid-coast Vietnam. A dedicated shopper, the heat and language barrier could not deter Kate from finding exactly what she wants in a short wool coat. Additionally, being measured across the bust and around the hips by tiny Vietnamese women after 4+ months of sticky rice and curry is a humbling experience. Kate would like to reiterate that it was a really, really hot process but ultimately incredibly rewarding. Plus, they take credit cards.
Realizing the bulk that these garments will add to our packs, we shipped home a box of well-worn and superfluous travel clothes, which should arrive in Portland sometime in July. Thank you, seamail.
No Hue!
The ancient city of Hue is both ancient and a city. After the overnight bus ride which was much helped by a dose of Tylenol PM, we took ourselves on a groggy self-guided tour of the citadel. It was interesting and enormous and right in the middle of the city - we recommend stopping if you're in the neighborhood.
The next day, we went on the popular boat tour of the ancient tombs surrounding Hue. Vietnam is all about the tour, as are the foreign tourists who visit Vietnam, so we thought we'd give it a shot. I think we were sort of unsure how to proceed after the parental units departed, and we didn't remember exactly what our traveling style consisted of. Plus, we like boats and looking at stuff, so how bad could it be? We cannot emphasize enough how bad this tour is. Suffice it to say that it was both boring and exhausting, though some beautiful things were seen, albeit at a glacial pace. This tour also allowed us to witness a meltdown by a 45 year old woman over a 60 cent beverage that required a series of urgent cell phone calls (obviously she was American - and from the East coast). It was at this point that we vowed to never again participate in a tour.
On the plus side, we discovered our new favorite photographic endeavor: spelling our names with our bodies in front of various scenic and historic places (which are much obscured by our limbs). Kate really excels at the T, while Kyle is a clear favorite in the Y category. We both struggle with Es.
The next day, we went on the popular boat tour of the ancient tombs surrounding Hue. Vietnam is all about the tour, as are the foreign tourists who visit Vietnam, so we thought we'd give it a shot. I think we were sort of unsure how to proceed after the parental units departed, and we didn't remember exactly what our traveling style consisted of. Plus, we like boats and looking at stuff, so how bad could it be? We cannot emphasize enough how bad this tour is. Suffice it to say that it was both boring and exhausting, though some beautiful things were seen, albeit at a glacial pace. This tour also allowed us to witness a meltdown by a 45 year old woman over a 60 cent beverage that required a series of urgent cell phone calls (obviously she was American - and from the East coast). It was at this point that we vowed to never again participate in a tour.
On the plus side, we discovered our new favorite photographic endeavor: spelling our names with our bodies in front of various scenic and historic places (which are much obscured by our limbs). Kate really excels at the T, while Kyle is a clear favorite in the Y category. We both struggle with Es.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Halong Bay - hurray!
You may know it as the Golf of Tonkin, or alternatively as the place that the dragon descended into the sea, but we're calling it Halong Bay, where we spent 3 glorious if foggy days cruising around a few of the thousands of limestone islands. Highlights included:
1) Fancy wooden boat called the Pinta (we are explorers!), where we had freshly blended welcome drinks three times. They were very welcoming.
2) Giant cave called Surprise Cave that included stalactites and stalagmites in various shapes, including a turtle and a penis.
3) Jumping into the rather cold waters of the bay from the top deck of the boat. The water was so calm we forgot it was going to be salt water, which it was.
4) Kayaking through an empty part of the bay that included caves, lagoons, and perfect green water.
5) Just as we were about to close our eyes and fall into well deserved sleep, the dulcet sounds of 4 Australians and the Vietnamese crew doing karaoke. Hits included "Dancing Queen," "Tears in Heaven," and our personal favorite, "He Ain't Heavy - He's My Brother." It was alternately hilarious and painful as the walls of our headboards abutted the speakers through a very thin boat wall. At least we could sing along.
6) Mountain biking from a small harbor into a village on Cat Ba Island, through green fields and rice paddies. We learned a little about village life, like all the dogs look oddly the same and the Vietnamese government builds giant schools, even if there are only 30 kids in the village to attend it.
7) The Parents Piper-Smyer, still footing the bill and classying us up, sprang for massages during our one night stay on Cat Ba island. Who knew that a 4'10", hundred pound Vietnamese lady could pummel us so vigorously. The highlight may have been when she leaped on the table and danced on our backs. It felt great - afterwards. PS: This was Casselman's first massage ever - she lives a deprived life.
8) Much squid eating. For some reason, the folks of Halong Bay have taken to serving squid with every meal. We have taken to requesting no more food. They have taken to not understanding our requests to stop the squidfest. Squid has taken to remaining on the table.
After our aquatic adventures, we returned via high speed ferry and minibus to Hanoi, for the piece de resistance of our sojourn in fancyville: the Metropole. We were like country bumpkins seeing the bright lights of the city for the first time, as we jumped on the bed and lounged in the slippers and robes so thoughtfully provided by the concierge. Watching a begloved bellboy carry our filthy packs was a dream come true. None of the colonial-black-tie-clad staff could understand that we were actually going to carry the packs ourselves as we walked to a bus. Surely we had a driver? Sadly, not anymore. We said goodbye to the Parents Piper-Smyer in the lobby, sure that we had but a few minutes to get the hell out before we were escorted from the premises for failing to meet their dress code.
1) Fancy wooden boat called the Pinta (we are explorers!), where we had freshly blended welcome drinks three times. They were very welcoming.
2) Giant cave called Surprise Cave that included stalactites and stalagmites in various shapes, including a turtle and a penis.
3) Jumping into the rather cold waters of the bay from the top deck of the boat. The water was so calm we forgot it was going to be salt water, which it was.
4) Kayaking through an empty part of the bay that included caves, lagoons, and perfect green water.
5) Just as we were about to close our eyes and fall into well deserved sleep, the dulcet sounds of 4 Australians and the Vietnamese crew doing karaoke. Hits included "Dancing Queen," "Tears in Heaven," and our personal favorite, "He Ain't Heavy - He's My Brother." It was alternately hilarious and painful as the walls of our headboards abutted the speakers through a very thin boat wall. At least we could sing along.
6) Mountain biking from a small harbor into a village on Cat Ba Island, through green fields and rice paddies. We learned a little about village life, like all the dogs look oddly the same and the Vietnamese government builds giant schools, even if there are only 30 kids in the village to attend it.
7) The Parents Piper-Smyer, still footing the bill and classying us up, sprang for massages during our one night stay on Cat Ba island. Who knew that a 4'10", hundred pound Vietnamese lady could pummel us so vigorously. The highlight may have been when she leaped on the table and danced on our backs. It felt great - afterwards. PS: This was Casselman's first massage ever - she lives a deprived life.
8) Much squid eating. For some reason, the folks of Halong Bay have taken to serving squid with every meal. We have taken to requesting no more food. They have taken to not understanding our requests to stop the squidfest. Squid has taken to remaining on the table.
After our aquatic adventures, we returned via high speed ferry and minibus to Hanoi, for the piece de resistance of our sojourn in fancyville: the Metropole. We were like country bumpkins seeing the bright lights of the city for the first time, as we jumped on the bed and lounged in the slippers and robes so thoughtfully provided by the concierge. Watching a begloved bellboy carry our filthy packs was a dream come true. None of the colonial-black-tie-clad staff could understand that we were actually going to carry the packs ourselves as we walked to a bus. Surely we had a driver? Sadly, not anymore. We said goodbye to the Parents Piper-Smyer in the lobby, sure that we had but a few minutes to get the hell out before we were escorted from the premises for failing to meet their dress code.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Hanoi High Life
My parents showed up and just like that, everything changed. We had our own bathroom with hot water and clean towels. We had free internet access in the lobby of the hotel. The hotel had a lobby. There was complimentary breakfast and smiling advice on local attractions. We ate at restaurants without plastic tables where there was wine served both by the glass and by the bottle. Moreover, none of this cost us a penny, which was amazing. We quickly realized that it takes moments to get used to this kind of life, but the transition back to scrimping and squalor will probably be slightly more difficult. Who cares? They have real milk in the coffee here, and you don't have to steal the napkins for use as toilet paper.
We headed out into the city armed with a fancy guidebook that had all sorts of pictures and no tips on how to eat for under a dollar. My parents were adorably wide-eyed as they pointed to the pedicabs and people eating soup on the street and dangerous actions of the zillions of motos streaming by. We saw the requisite sights: Temple of Literature (Lesson: the Vietnamese loved learnin' and commemoratin' the learnin' of their people); Museum of Ethnology (Lesson: there are many different groups of people in Vietnam and their houses differ widely. Some have really tall ceilings! Also, teenagers of all cultures are annoying); Ho Chi Minh Mosoleum (Lesson: preserving a dead communist leader for 40 years takes serious work by the military, both green-clad and white-clad. It is disrespectful to talk, put your hands behind your back, or wear sunglasses when gawking at a dead communist leader under glass); Hoa Lo Prison aka the Hanoi Hilton (Lesson: the French were barbaric to their prisoners, while U.S. soldiers enjoyed a pleasant if rustic tenure at the hands of the enlightened and generous Vietnamese. John McCain was here); and the Old Quarter (Lesson: tourists heart The North Face. Vietnamese people heart stretching and badminton by the sides of the lake). All this traipsing around included a fair amount of eating and drinking. And a more than fair amount of picture snapping.
One evening, we had the pleasure of dining with a group of Vietnamese parents whose offspring are attending Bucknell University, where my father works. While a lovely school, there really isn't much to say about it if you never went there or, in Kate's case, have never even visited. Moreover, a large proportion of the attendees did not speak English, and since our Vietnamese is limited to Hello, Thank you, and Delicious, we weren't much help. The awkwardness was palpable but mitigated by my mother's inability to understand her dining companion, mistaking the occupational description "Press Photographer" for "Breast Photographer." After some puzzled clarifying questions, she shrugged and retorted, "In America, we call that a Mamographer." Conversation continued until it was made clear that two of our hosts work for the AP, one as a writer, one as a Press photographer. Ah, cultural exchange. I'm still laughing.
Our final night in Hanoi will be spent at the superfancy Metripole Hotel. We have already experienced the snooty grandeur which is the Metripole when we went to the chocolate buffet they serve for tea. Yes, as indicated, it is a buffet of chocolate and therefore well worth the price and the stairs at our ragamuffin appearances. This hotel is where fancy people go to eat fancy food and talk about the fancy things they have done. Many a traveler will stop by the storied hotel to partake, if only for the length of a cup of tea, of its splendor. When we alight this afternoon, however, we will actually be in residence at the Metripole. I can't wait to hand the bellhop my excruciatingly dirty 13 year old backpack that now has something on the order of 12 books in the bottom of it. We will be stealing everything we can get our hands on, like the grubby little backpackers we are.
So a hearty and pampered Thank You to Pat/Mom and Mick/Dad for a wonderful week of travels. Sorry we couldn't provide better weather but at least we saw the historic Vietnamese water puppetry and did our share for the Vietnamese street-hawker economy.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Sapa - The San Francisco of Rural Northern Vientam
Sapa is the small highland town outside of Hanoi- by 10 hours- that many people go to for the beautiful mountainside terraces and hillside minority villages. After the overnight train, we arrived early in the morning and set up shop in a great 10 dollar room overlooking the valley, they assured us. The fog was abundant in the morning and you couldn't see the next house, but we embarked on a well-deserved nap with the asperations of view. It delivered.
The town is kind of like San Francisco without the city or bay - lots of fog and hills. It is sprinkled liberally with elaborately dressed Hmong women selling hand-stitched crafts from their basket backpacks, who all recite the following script:
-What is your name? (Ahh, beautiful name!)
- Where you from? (Ahh, America!)
- How old you? (So young!)
- How many brother sister you have? (oh.)
- You buy from me? (Later you buy from me? very cheap. good price. you buy from me.)
Therefore, we wandered around town muttering over and over, "Kate...America...26...One...No, thank you." It was kind of hilarious, the predictability.
We went for a two day-one night trek into the hills, which was originally going to be with 5 people but the 3 frenchies decided on a separate French guide, so we headed down the trail with our Hmong guide, Mei, and her posse of 5 selling things ladies. Mei is 26, like us. She got married at 15 and has 2 kids and taught herself English when her father died and they needed money. She never went to school and cannot read, but speaks very good English, some french, fluent Hmong and Vietnamese. She is deathly afraid of the water but hikes mountains in plastic shower shoes. She made us feel very tall.
The first part of our trek included lots of questions about our (fictitious but amazingly handsome) boyfriends and the making of flower crowns by our guides for the amusement of the whities. The fog lifted and the steep terraced rice fields of the Sapa valley became visible as we marveled and the ladies giggled and tended to the babies strapped to their backs. We had lunch in a very popular little Hmong village and hiked on through the afternoon, passing water buffalo and shy children. We stopped for the night in our "homestay" - which was a local restaurant/bar/bunk house. We happened to catch the tide of pre-teens leaving school and spend a hilarious hour chatting with a bunch of 12 year old Hmong girls, who tried on our sunglasses and territorially laid claim to us as we entered the town.
We shared the bunkhouse with 5 French travelers, which made Kate the resident translator and allowed Kyle to use her three phrases of French ("Maitenant! Tout Les Temps! Avec Moi!"). For you Oregonians, we met the French Mad Dog (aka La Chien Foulles - Kyle is bilingual now) and watches as children were alternately scared and amazed by her Mohawk and many piercings. We were given some rice whiskey to try out, which after the 4th or 5th shot really grows on you. The chilly weather of Sapa made for great sleeping, and we awoke to banana crepes and godawful Russian instant coffee - and, appropriately, lots and lots of fog.
Mee's brother was getting married on our second day, so we opted to forego the traditional hike in favor of a visit to her family's house and a glimpse of the wedding. The wedding seemed to be about everyone packed into a small house, singing on a small PA system and eating a big lunch of roasted pig. Her brother and his wife-to-be (both 17) looked incredibly young to us but the people crowding the rafters and doorways of the small house didn't seem phased. Much talking in a language we had no chance of understanding was the main activity; there was also a lot of cooking and tea drinking.
We finished our hike through more rice fields and bamboo forest, returning to Sapa in a jeep that clearly had its origins in some war we all feel it is best to forget. Manual windshield wipers in a seriously rainy climate with hazardous road conditions are an exciting combination. We arrived in town just in time for showers before getting on the minibus to Lao Cai and the overnight train to Hanoi. Luckily for us, the trip back was uneventful, although the dozen or so people sleeping and smoking in the train corridor were new.
We are now camped out in a hotel (not a hostel!), awaiting the arrival of Kyle's parents, who will surely take this trip up a notch in the good eats and sleeps department (as well as conversation and knowledge of goings on in the outside world). This is us killing time. We walked around the lake in the old quarter and watched many people stretch in an 80s fitness trend type manner and play badminton with serious focus. Kate got a haircut and Kyle served as very knoweldgable hair consultant, with positive results.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Strangers on a Train
Let us preface this blog entry with the following disclaimer: We have many, many pleasant experiences with local people during our travels. Every day, we see smiles, have lively conversations, and are offered transport at extremely low prices. On one memorable occassion, a Malaysian couple pulled over to offer us (clearly confused Americans) directions, and pressed four tangerines into our hands. We are enjoying ourselves and the people we meet - its just that these experiences are not as interesting to write about for our large and varied readership as the less diserable ones. Such as the following:
To get from Hanoi to Sapa, one takes the overnight train, departing around 9pm. Approaching our designated train car, which contained our designated sleeping berths, we noticed a rather stumbley Vietnamese man in a dishelved business suit. A passing glance from a Jehova's Witness would have registered the gentleman's intoxication. Each of us sent up our silent wishes that this man was bound for any other bunk than the additional two in our cabin. Alas, our prayers went unanswered, or possibly deliberately defied, as we found our drunken bunkmate sprawled out on one of our bunks, chatting with two of the train employees. He appeared to be talking on one of their cell phones while his charged beside him.
Lazlo von Bellyslop, as we came to refer to him, was not quick to respond to the presence of two tired but well-meaning strangers in his cabin. It took much motioning to move him from our bunk to the adjacent berth to which he was assigned (regardless of the presence of the railway personnel). He then removed his shoes and dress socks and placed them in the middle of the floor. These cabins, by the way, are roughly half the size of a college single and sleep four, including luggage. We set ourselves up on the right half of the room as Lazlo yammered loudly on his (now apparently recharged) cell phone, dress shirt untucked. It was shocking that despite his total innebriation, he was exhibiting none of the charm, wit, and intoxicating attractiveness that we always exude when in a similar state.
We decided to make the most of our situation and play a quiet game of cards on the lower bed of our bunkbed. Moments into our game, L.V. Bellyslop teetered forward on his bed to poke Kate in the leg, pointing at our tevas stowed neatly below the bunk. He then stuck his index finger into his open mouth, as if to convey a message. "What? I can't understand you," said Kate in a restrained but icy tone. He continued to point at the shoes, huffed, and finally donned his own dress shoes (sans socks), presumably to stumble to the bathroom. Kate was convinced he was requesting a bite of her decade old tevas, while Kyle thought he was indicating that he had previously vomited where their shoes and luggage now resided. Some mysteries remain unsolved.
Returning from the bathroom, Mr. Von Bellyslop (now clad in unbottoned button down, revealing his namesake) smacked our slumbering fourth cabinmate, growled unintelligably, and turned out the lights, plunging the cabin into darkness. Kyle involuntarily blurted, "Umm, no!", because we were in the middle of a rather intense game of Spit and it was 9:15 pm. We turned on our bedside reading light and finished the game, smoldering in our mix of hatred and second-childish disdain for confrontation.
We thought perhaps the "lights out" incident meant quite sleeping time, but L.V.B. returned to his cell phone, interimittently chatting loudly, dropping it, and letting it ring to hear its pop-song ring tone. We employed ear plugs but they could not block out Lazzy V's nocturnal escapades, most specifically his continued retching into the cabin's wicker trashcan.
Kyle, in a display of misguided chivalry that will never be forgotten (but was appropriate given the challenges of Kate's day), had taken the bottom bunk, not three feet from the face and trashcan of L. V. Beezy. All night, despite our best intentions, sleep was kept at bay by the periodic puking, door slamming, throat clearing, and heavy breathing of what we now think of as The Most Revolting Man in Vietnam (And Possibly the Planet). Sometime in the middle of the night, Kyle became convinced that Laz was about to grab her nalgene, which was not only our sole source of water but also provided a necessary visual screen to the sweaty face of the M.R.M.I.V. Dispite the earplugs, she had a sixth sense about these things, and so was not surprised to sit up and see his grubby hand clutching her water bottle. "Stop! No! Mine! No Yours!" or some such words of pigeon english were spoken and she snatched the bottle back, secretely cursing everyone in the cabin including Kate on the top bunk, whole yards away from this evil, evil man.
Mercifully, the conductor rapped on our door to indicate we were at the Lao Cai station, where you depart for the minibus to Sapa. Lazlo V. Bellyslop stood up, belly gleaming in the flourescent hallway light, ricocheted off the upper bunks, flung his meager possessions around, failed to locate his discarded socks, and stalked off the train, hopefully never to be seen from again. Kyle laughed. Kate groaned. Our fourth bunkmate continued to pretend to be deaf, dumb, and without a sense of smell. Perhaps the best tactic in such a situation.
To get from Hanoi to Sapa, one takes the overnight train, departing around 9pm. Approaching our designated train car, which contained our designated sleeping berths, we noticed a rather stumbley Vietnamese man in a dishelved business suit. A passing glance from a Jehova's Witness would have registered the gentleman's intoxication. Each of us sent up our silent wishes that this man was bound for any other bunk than the additional two in our cabin. Alas, our prayers went unanswered, or possibly deliberately defied, as we found our drunken bunkmate sprawled out on one of our bunks, chatting with two of the train employees. He appeared to be talking on one of their cell phones while his charged beside him.
Lazlo von Bellyslop, as we came to refer to him, was not quick to respond to the presence of two tired but well-meaning strangers in his cabin. It took much motioning to move him from our bunk to the adjacent berth to which he was assigned (regardless of the presence of the railway personnel). He then removed his shoes and dress socks and placed them in the middle of the floor. These cabins, by the way, are roughly half the size of a college single and sleep four, including luggage. We set ourselves up on the right half of the room as Lazlo yammered loudly on his (now apparently recharged) cell phone, dress shirt untucked. It was shocking that despite his total innebriation, he was exhibiting none of the charm, wit, and intoxicating attractiveness that we always exude when in a similar state.
We decided to make the most of our situation and play a quiet game of cards on the lower bed of our bunkbed. Moments into our game, L.V. Bellyslop teetered forward on his bed to poke Kate in the leg, pointing at our tevas stowed neatly below the bunk. He then stuck his index finger into his open mouth, as if to convey a message. "What? I can't understand you," said Kate in a restrained but icy tone. He continued to point at the shoes, huffed, and finally donned his own dress shoes (sans socks), presumably to stumble to the bathroom. Kate was convinced he was requesting a bite of her decade old tevas, while Kyle thought he was indicating that he had previously vomited where their shoes and luggage now resided. Some mysteries remain unsolved.
Returning from the bathroom, Mr. Von Bellyslop (now clad in unbottoned button down, revealing his namesake) smacked our slumbering fourth cabinmate, growled unintelligably, and turned out the lights, plunging the cabin into darkness. Kyle involuntarily blurted, "Umm, no!", because we were in the middle of a rather intense game of Spit and it was 9:15 pm. We turned on our bedside reading light and finished the game, smoldering in our mix of hatred and second-childish disdain for confrontation.
We thought perhaps the "lights out" incident meant quite sleeping time, but L.V.B. returned to his cell phone, interimittently chatting loudly, dropping it, and letting it ring to hear its pop-song ring tone. We employed ear plugs but they could not block out Lazzy V's nocturnal escapades, most specifically his continued retching into the cabin's wicker trashcan.
Kyle, in a display of misguided chivalry that will never be forgotten (but was appropriate given the challenges of Kate's day), had taken the bottom bunk, not three feet from the face and trashcan of L. V. Beezy. All night, despite our best intentions, sleep was kept at bay by the periodic puking, door slamming, throat clearing, and heavy breathing of what we now think of as The Most Revolting Man in Vietnam (And Possibly the Planet). Sometime in the middle of the night, Kyle became convinced that Laz was about to grab her nalgene, which was not only our sole source of water but also provided a necessary visual screen to the sweaty face of the M.R.M.I.V. Dispite the earplugs, she had a sixth sense about these things, and so was not surprised to sit up and see his grubby hand clutching her water bottle. "Stop! No! Mine! No Yours!" or some such words of pigeon english were spoken and she snatched the bottle back, secretely cursing everyone in the cabin including Kate on the top bunk, whole yards away from this evil, evil man.
Mercifully, the conductor rapped on our door to indicate we were at the Lao Cai station, where you depart for the minibus to Sapa. Lazlo V. Bellyslop stood up, belly gleaming in the flourescent hallway light, ricocheted off the upper bunks, flung his meager possessions around, failed to locate his discarded socks, and stalked off the train, hopefully never to be seen from again. Kyle laughed. Kate groaned. Our fourth bunkmate continued to pretend to be deaf, dumb, and without a sense of smell. Perhaps the best tactic in such a situation.
We're in 'Nam - There Are No Rules
Day one in Vietnam found us in Hanoi trying not to see anything interesting, lest we ruin the experience for when Kyle's parents join us on the 7th. So we spent the morning at the train station, bought some tickets, checked our luggage, and hit the drizzly streets with no particular destination in mind. While having coffee, we witnessed the following:
Small dining establishment with traditional low plastic tables and stools adorning the sidewalk suddenly becomes animated. Patrons are hustled inside, propreitors are grabbing chairs, chopsticks, and condiments with an urgency rarely seen in South East Asia. Equally determined in their pursuit are 6-8 uniformed military police officers (picture the bright green and red accents of the North Vietnamese in every movie you've ever seen - its exactly the same) on motorcycles. The police grab the remaining restaurant furnishings, which consist of two erected sidewalk umbrellas, which they struggle to retract with authority. Within seconds, a pickup truck with two other officials pulls up and the umbrellas are deposited in it, atop a motley pile of stools, tables, and other sidewalk dining implements. The truck speeds off, flanked by half a dozen motos with pairs of cops. The restauranteurs skulk in the doorway of their establishment, looking angry but saying nothing. The sidewalk is now relatively empty.
Moments later, the truck and moto procession speeds by in the opposite direction, having added a glass display case and surely numerous condiments to its pile of booty. Within one stoplight cycle, the tables reappear from the pilaged restaurants and patrons are reseated; tea cups and soup bowls are returned as al fresco dining as usual resumes.
What are the possible explanations? We've come up with the following:
1) Annual police picnic is coming up, and they require supplies for their family-oriented festivities. Later, they will raid the rice market for gear for the sack races.
2) Police cadets are undergoing rush week, which requires rigorous displays of authority and coordination.
3) Speed and agility of shopkeepers is tested regularly by the local police force to keep them fit for entry into some Hanoi-based reality TV slash game show of Japanese derivation.
You be the judge.
Small dining establishment with traditional low plastic tables and stools adorning the sidewalk suddenly becomes animated. Patrons are hustled inside, propreitors are grabbing chairs, chopsticks, and condiments with an urgency rarely seen in South East Asia. Equally determined in their pursuit are 6-8 uniformed military police officers (picture the bright green and red accents of the North Vietnamese in every movie you've ever seen - its exactly the same) on motorcycles. The police grab the remaining restaurant furnishings, which consist of two erected sidewalk umbrellas, which they struggle to retract with authority. Within seconds, a pickup truck with two other officials pulls up and the umbrellas are deposited in it, atop a motley pile of stools, tables, and other sidewalk dining implements. The truck speeds off, flanked by half a dozen motos with pairs of cops. The restauranteurs skulk in the doorway of their establishment, looking angry but saying nothing. The sidewalk is now relatively empty.
Moments later, the truck and moto procession speeds by in the opposite direction, having added a glass display case and surely numerous condiments to its pile of booty. Within one stoplight cycle, the tables reappear from the pilaged restaurants and patrons are reseated; tea cups and soup bowls are returned as al fresco dining as usual resumes.
What are the possible explanations? We've come up with the following:
1) Annual police picnic is coming up, and they require supplies for their family-oriented festivities. Later, they will raid the rice market for gear for the sack races.
2) Police cadets are undergoing rush week, which requires rigorous displays of authority and coordination.
3) Speed and agility of shopkeepers is tested regularly by the local police force to keep them fit for entry into some Hanoi-based reality TV slash game show of Japanese derivation.
You be the judge.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Kuala Lumpur - City of Giant Wisma
We have been in Kuala Lumpur for four exhilarating days, and we still like it. It gets Kyle's rating as Most Livable City in South East Asia. Not only that, but it is chalk full of public transportation options and oddly walkable (if you can ignore the heat). Here's what we've seen, heard, and smelled in our last days in the Malaysian Peninsula!
We landed in a guest house in the Golden Triangle, the shopping-dining-being a trendsetter part of the middle of the city. We were shocked to find so many international restaurants on our block - and then saw the prices and realized we can't afford them. We can still feel cosmopolitan by association. Also, our place has a greened up roof deck from which we can watch the overpriced hustle and bustle while eating cup of soup from the minimart. Everybody wins.
We trekked back from Taman Negara in order to be able to get to the Vietnamese Embassy to pick up our visas, which we managed to do Friday morning. Shockingly, the Vietnamese embassy was filled to capacity with Vietnamese citizens who had overstayed their visas and were being charged a whole bunch of Ringit (or Dong - or Dollars) to get back to their homeland. Really good examples of elaborately acid washed and embroidered jeans kept us entertained while waiting.
Once we had our visas in hand, we hiked over to the Petronas (pronounced PET-row-nahs) Towers to get some free tickets for the Skybridge walk between the two towers. Our tickets were for late afternoon, but we discovered in the lobby of the building that there was an open rehearsal of the Malaysia Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. We raced back home to get appropriate footwear (without which we would not be admitted - tevas aren't appropriate for the symphony?? They are in portland) and then returned to Petronas Symphony Hall. The rehearsal was fascinating - Russian director with the obligatory giant floppy hair, one stand up bass player who was easily seven feet tall and made his bass look like a cello, and a triangle player who was called out for just not giving it her all.
We then headed to the Petronas skybridge tour area, which began with a 10 minute infomercial on the wonderful things the Petronas oil company does for the world. In 3D, no less, complete with spiffy aviator style glasses. Why were we the only two laughing? We were then herded up to the 41st floor Skybridge which connects the two towers and has views of most of the city. The towers themselves are surprisingly beautiful and thoughtfully done, designed as two superimposed squares that make the 8 pointed star representing 8 Muslim values. Kate was prepared to be unimpressed, but left spouting off about the genius of Cesar Pelli. It should be noted, however, that they are no longer the tallest building in the world - having been passed by Taipei 101 - but they are still the tallest PAIR of buildings. Seems kind of semantic, as they are clearly ridiculously tall. We then went to the central market, which was lame but a South African man aggressively asked Kate on a date and Kyle laughed out loud at both of them.
The next day we headed off to the National Museum, which was a challenge to get to (directions actually included scampering across the 4 lane highway and walking down an onramp) but impressive inside. Malaysia had its 50th anniversary in 2007 and really gussied itself up for the occasion, including adding holograms and computer screens to the museum exhibits. We learned a lot and oohed and ahhed. Then we continued our walk to the Old Railway Station, past the National Masque to Merdeka Square, which is a giant field surrounded by colonial buildings. Kate did a cartwheel of freedom in the name of the people of Malaysia. Then we walked home and ate some Lebanese food we couldn't afford.
Our last day in Kuala Lumpur, we took the monorail (monorail...monorail...Monorail! Kate has never heard the Simpson's monorail song before this trip, but now she has. Many times.) to Lake Titiwangsa park. Although strangely not easy to access on foot, the park was really nice and had totally normal park events going on, including a skate boarding competition and what we deduced was a public health fair. A kayaking class was awkwardly flipping their boats in the middle of the lake and hilariously struggling back into them. We laughed. We then walked over to the National Art Gallery, which was free (woohoo!) and excellent. Has anyone ever heard of Teng the Batik artist? Big in the late '60s and a Malaysian hero. There was also a large exhibit of Palestinian/pro-Palestinian/anti-war in Gaza art that was thought provoking. From there we took the light rail to Little India, where we had lunch and did some street market shopping (though don't expect a lot of gifts from Malaysia, unless you want a knock off Rolex or head scarf). Tonight we will be enjoying our roof deck one last time before flying off to Hanoi in the morning. We're looking forward to a return to cheap beer and pedicabs and sticky rice.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Teman Negara - oldest jungle on the planet
Teman Negara is reported to be the oldest jungle on the planet . . . I'm not sure how they figured that out exactly or even what that means entirely but it's a very cool national park which we had the chance to see only a little corner of.
Upon our arrival into the dry (no, still quite humid and a bit rainy - I'm talking beer-free!) town of Kuala Tehan, we found most accommodations full but eventually set ourselves up in the one Motel. The town is on a river and has very little to it other than a few simple accommodations and a half dozen floating restaurants on the river which have nearly identical menus full of tasty and cheap food.
A quick 15 meter boat ferry to the other side of the river places you on the edge of the national park. Signs remind you to carry your park pass at all times or you could be thrown in JAIL for up to 3 years!! Whoa there Malaysia, take it easy. The park pass costs 1 ringett - about 30 cents. We spent our first morning, hiking through a light cooling rain to the canopy walk. The walk is a loop of suspended wooden planks linking ancient trees high above the jungle floor. Yes, it was legitimate, involved tickets and completely safe. Yes, it was wobbly, made of old ladders and scrap wood and awesomely frightening. That evening we took a slightly less harrowing night walk with a guide to show us some night creatures of the jungle. Mmm - one tiny key chain flashlight between the two of us. Luckily we saw only deer and some sizable spiders.
We also took a day hike to The Bat Cave. Not Bruce Wayne but a stench you wouldn't believe and a whole slew of sleeping bats. Which, I will tell you are mammals. Kyle and I have worked out a fairly successful system where I deal with the frightening mammals (barking dogs, friendly and not so friendly monkeys etc.) and Kyle deals with the bugs (massive roaches and spiders etc.) Our system does fall down at reptiles so the jungles full of large Monitor lizards, we take on together. This system did come back to bite Kyle in the rear (thankfully not literally) when we checked out of our room early on the morning to catch our bus to Kuala Lumpor.
Here is the scene: 7am, rundown motel with an open air hallway. Packs on, we step out of our room. I stop in horror, Kyle collides face first with my pack behind me.
KATE: "Whoa"
KYLE: "It's just a cicada Kate - let's go"
KATE: "No, that one - over there"
KYLE: "Whoa"
KATE: "Yeah, it could be considered a mammal by virtue of size alone but this one's in your department I think"
Blocking our exit, was the largest bug I have ever seen. The body, was the size of my fist with wings the size of . . . absurdly large bug wings. Kyle, forced into heroic action by our animal/bug contract, took a trash can and threw it over the dinosaurian-beast while I fled to safety down the hall.
I am ashamed to say that some unsuspecting custodial technician at Jungle View Motel must have had quite a surprise when they went to put that waste basket back. For that, I am deeply apologetic but it was out of my jurisdiction and we had a bus to catch.
Upon our arrival into the dry (no, still quite humid and a bit rainy - I'm talking beer-free!) town of Kuala Tehan, we found most accommodations full but eventually set ourselves up in the one Motel. The town is on a river and has very little to it other than a few simple accommodations and a half dozen floating restaurants on the river which have nearly identical menus full of tasty and cheap food.
A quick 15 meter boat ferry to the other side of the river places you on the edge of the national park. Signs remind you to carry your park pass at all times or you could be thrown in JAIL for up to 3 years!! Whoa there Malaysia, take it easy. The park pass costs 1 ringett - about 30 cents. We spent our first morning, hiking through a light cooling rain to the canopy walk. The walk is a loop of suspended wooden planks linking ancient trees high above the jungle floor. Yes, it was legitimate, involved tickets and completely safe. Yes, it was wobbly, made of old ladders and scrap wood and awesomely frightening. That evening we took a slightly less harrowing night walk with a guide to show us some night creatures of the jungle. Mmm - one tiny key chain flashlight between the two of us. Luckily we saw only deer and some sizable spiders.
We also took a day hike to The Bat Cave. Not Bruce Wayne but a stench you wouldn't believe and a whole slew of sleeping bats. Which, I will tell you are mammals. Kyle and I have worked out a fairly successful system where I deal with the frightening mammals (barking dogs, friendly and not so friendly monkeys etc.) and Kyle deals with the bugs (massive roaches and spiders etc.) Our system does fall down at reptiles so the jungles full of large Monitor lizards, we take on together. This system did come back to bite Kyle in the rear (thankfully not literally) when we checked out of our room early on the morning to catch our bus to Kuala Lumpor.
Here is the scene: 7am, rundown motel with an open air hallway. Packs on, we step out of our room. I stop in horror, Kyle collides face first with my pack behind me.
KATE: "Whoa"
KYLE: "It's just a cicada Kate - let's go"
KATE: "No, that one - over there"
KYLE: "Whoa"
KATE: "Yeah, it could be considered a mammal by virtue of size alone but this one's in your department I think"
Blocking our exit, was the largest bug I have ever seen. The body, was the size of my fist with wings the size of . . . absurdly large bug wings. Kyle, forced into heroic action by our animal/bug contract, took a trash can and threw it over the dinosaurian-beast while I fled to safety down the hall.
I am ashamed to say that some unsuspecting custodial technician at Jungle View Motel must have had quite a surprise when they went to put that waste basket back. For that, I am deeply apologetic but it was out of my jurisdiction and we had a bus to catch.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Palau Perhentian = Paradise?
We spent one uneventful night in Kuala Terengganu before embarking for the Perhentian Islands, off the North East shore of Malaysia. After a 3 hour bus ride, we got on a speed boat for the extra bumpy 20 kilometer ride out to the islands. Approaching the two islands of the Perhentians made us laugh because everything looks like a beach scene movie set - white beach inlets surrounded by thick jungle on one side and ridiculously blue water on the other. We opted for the smaller island, Kecil, getting of the boat in Coral Bay, a perfect beach with a couple of small hotels, cafes, and dive shops down the 200 meter beach. The beach faces west for those perfect island sunsets. What more could you want?
Nothing except cheap beer, which simply does not exist. Nor do bars. The east coast of Malaysia is much more homogeneously Malay Muslim than the more mixed west coast, and drinking as not at the top of their list of activities. Not one of the restaurants has alcohol on the menu, which is shocking. There is, however, a dude with a cooler of crappy but expensive beer cans -- we laughed pretty hard when he called out "Last call!" around 11 pm. All of the white tourists (mostly European) are as perplexed as we are, and its funny to watch people discover the island's teetotalling ways.
Yesterday we went on the long snorkeling trip, stopping at 5 spots around the two islands, in addition to a little place for lunch. Our boat driver/guide was great, hopping in the water with us at every spot to point out different corals and fish. We saw reef sharks, sea turtles, spotted rays, a whole bunch of different corals, and thousands of amazingly colorful fish. The three other girls on our boat were from Norway and actually had the names Helga, Uda, and unprouncable combination of vowel sounds. Whenever they saw something exciting or potentially scary, they would squeal loudly through their snorkels - it was hilarious. They were not fans of the sharks.
Today we played a little frisbee on the beach and walked through the jungle to the Long Beach on the other side of the island to internet and look around. We're trying to avoid the intense tropical sun after yesterday's boat trip and will be hiding in the shade, reading and relaxing. Tomorrow we head to Taman Negara, the jungley national park in the interior of the country.
Nothing except cheap beer, which simply does not exist. Nor do bars. The east coast of Malaysia is much more homogeneously Malay Muslim than the more mixed west coast, and drinking as not at the top of their list of activities. Not one of the restaurants has alcohol on the menu, which is shocking. There is, however, a dude with a cooler of crappy but expensive beer cans -- we laughed pretty hard when he called out "Last call!" around 11 pm. All of the white tourists (mostly European) are as perplexed as we are, and its funny to watch people discover the island's teetotalling ways.
Yesterday we went on the long snorkeling trip, stopping at 5 spots around the two islands, in addition to a little place for lunch. Our boat driver/guide was great, hopping in the water with us at every spot to point out different corals and fish. We saw reef sharks, sea turtles, spotted rays, a whole bunch of different corals, and thousands of amazingly colorful fish. The three other girls on our boat were from Norway and actually had the names Helga, Uda, and unprouncable combination of vowel sounds. Whenever they saw something exciting or potentially scary, they would squeal loudly through their snorkels - it was hilarious. They were not fans of the sharks.
Today we played a little frisbee on the beach and walked through the jungle to the Long Beach on the other side of the island to internet and look around. We're trying to avoid the intense tropical sun after yesterday's boat trip and will be hiding in the shade, reading and relaxing. Tomorrow we head to Taman Negara, the jungley national park in the interior of the country.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Chatting about Cherating
East Coast Malaysian Peninsula is supposedly in monsoon season (or the wet part of the monsoon climate system, thank you Mr. Nagle), but Cherating has refused to comply, brazenly sporting blue skies and hot, hot sun. Cherating is a beachside town made popular by the first Club Med in Asia - which appears to have skipped town along with most of the tourists. There are a slew of beach bungalows and very few restaurants along the pristine stretch of sand we've been calling home for the last 3 days. Our days have been filled with beach strolls, swims in the South China Sea (words I never thought I would be writing), and sarong fort building on our porch to avoid the scorching late-afternoon sun.
We have also been spending a lot of time trying to avoid our friendly and talkative neighbor. His name is Joel (aka Joel the Creeper, Joel the guy with Aspergers, Joel the Conspiracy Theorist), he is about 60, from Massachusetts, and won't stop talking...about how the American navy is causing the 5 year drought in Australia; Ralph Nader is not an environmentalist because he condones native american whaling; while traveling in India, he carried and regularly used an electric stun gun to keep away beggars and generally get himself some much needed space (he went through 9 batteries in 3 months); Thai farmers should be shot to make enough room for the thai elephants to be freed from their slavery in the tourist industry and returned to the wild; every 6th grader should know how a nuclear bomb is put together; and finally, how he was sitting with this American girl in a bar in Bangkok and she was being heckled by this street seller guy (which is common enough) and she had just had enough so she whipped out a bottle of hairspray and a lighter, using them as a make shift flamethrower and LIT THE HECKLER ON FIRE. Most people where then looking at the man on fire, Joel reported, and they were able to skulk away.
We tried to do some horseback riding on the beach in honor of Kate's 26th Birthday (huzzah) but either the horses were sick or the instructors were too hungover - we don't speak Bahasa Malay. Instead, we played frisbee on the beach and immortalized our travels in snackfood diarama on our porch. Tomorrow we head to Kuala Terengannu for a night before a few days in the Perhentian Islands.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Malaysia
So, we're in Malaysia. We flew here on Friday the 13th, which freaked out fear-of-flying Kate but turned out to be just fine. Landing in Kuala Lumpur, we took the bus into KL Sentral Station and the light rail to our hostel in Chinatown. Oh, the wonders of a modern city with so much public transportation - subway, light rail, monorail, etc. Kind of overwhelming after so many backwater towns. After checking in, we wandered and stumbled and monorailed and sprinted to make it to the Vietnamese embassy before close on Friday, in order to get our visas for Vietnam (which are pricey!). We made it, and rewarded ourselves with a movie at the mall at the foot of the Petronas Towers.
You may not be aware of the melting pot that is Malaysia. It is a mix of Malay people (as in, people who are ethnically from the area), Chinese (who've been here for a couple hundred years), Indian (same story), and a sprinkling of Europeans over the centuries (Dutch, Portugese, British) - plus you have Singapore within spitting distance, with its eclectic mix. Oh, and its mostly muslim. And they speak what is basically Bahasa Indonesian (except its called Bahasa Malay) - in addition to all the other languages floating around. Even with all these different cultures, we still get a lot of stares (although it should be noted that people frequently think we're dutch or finish - and on one memorable occassion, asked Kyle if she was some kind of Asian. Uhhh...caucasian?).
So we left KL on Saturday morning for Melaka, as in the Straights of Melaka and all of the fun European pillaging of the spice trade in the Indies. Melakka is a microcosm of Malaysia's cultural mutt-ness; we are again staying in Chinatown, but also next to a masque and around the corner from a Hindu temple. The center of Melaka is an old dutch fort and several old churches. Weekenders from all over the peninsula seem to come here with their families to stroll along the river or the night market of Jonker street. The city has been working very hard to earn World Heritage status, and is clean and proud of its 500 years of battling colonial history. Its lovely though has little in the way of banging night life (NB: Malaysia, being Muslim, has little booze and that it does have is super expensive. Not scoring points here, Malaysia...). Also, the pedicab drivers are the most enthusiastic we've seen, decorating their two-person side cars with fake flowers and christmas lights and extremely loud pop music. The Chinese settlers here are known as Baba Nonya or Straits Born Chinese and have their own unique food style that combines some of the spicy indian/indonesian flavors with Chinese noodles and tofu. Yum.
Tomorrow we head across the peninsula and into the monsoon wet season for the beaches of Cherating.
You may not be aware of the melting pot that is Malaysia. It is a mix of Malay people (as in, people who are ethnically from the area), Chinese (who've been here for a couple hundred years), Indian (same story), and a sprinkling of Europeans over the centuries (Dutch, Portugese, British) - plus you have Singapore within spitting distance, with its eclectic mix. Oh, and its mostly muslim. And they speak what is basically Bahasa Indonesian (except its called Bahasa Malay) - in addition to all the other languages floating around. Even with all these different cultures, we still get a lot of stares (although it should be noted that people frequently think we're dutch or finish - and on one memorable occassion, asked Kyle if she was some kind of Asian. Uhhh...caucasian?).
So we left KL on Saturday morning for Melaka, as in the Straights of Melaka and all of the fun European pillaging of the spice trade in the Indies. Melakka is a microcosm of Malaysia's cultural mutt-ness; we are again staying in Chinatown, but also next to a masque and around the corner from a Hindu temple. The center of Melaka is an old dutch fort and several old churches. Weekenders from all over the peninsula seem to come here with their families to stroll along the river or the night market of Jonker street. The city has been working very hard to earn World Heritage status, and is clean and proud of its 500 years of battling colonial history. Its lovely though has little in the way of banging night life (NB: Malaysia, being Muslim, has little booze and that it does have is super expensive. Not scoring points here, Malaysia...). Also, the pedicab drivers are the most enthusiastic we've seen, decorating their two-person side cars with fake flowers and christmas lights and extremely loud pop music. The Chinese settlers here are known as Baba Nonya or Straits Born Chinese and have their own unique food style that combines some of the spicy indian/indonesian flavors with Chinese noodles and tofu. Yum.
Tomorrow we head across the peninsula and into the monsoon wet season for the beaches of Cherating.
An island in a lake on an island in an archepelago
Oh, Lake Toba. A mere 4 hour hop and skip from (supercrappy) Medan and you get to this giant freshwater lake in northern Sumatra - the largest lake in SE Asia. In the middle of the lake is lovely Samosir Island, which is lush and steep and has traditional Batak culture (which we learned about!). The main town on Samosir (at least as far as we can tell) is Tuktuk, on a little peninsula on the Eastern shore of the island. We arrived via ferry, which drops you at your desired lake front hotel in Tuktuk. Most hotels have swimming sections and black, white, and red Batak carvings around the fronts of the traditional buildings with thatch, saddle shaped roofs.
According to locals, tourism all over Sumatra has been down since the late nineties - and we were persistently questioned about why westerners we're coming there anymore. We maintain that it is simply far, far away from the U.S., but the truth is also that no one thinks of going to Sumatra on vacation. But you should! Its fantastic. There were very few tourists around, and we basically biked around the edge of the island, swam in the perfectly clear fresh water, read our books, and ate tasty food. We guess you can go to a waterfall or some hotsprings or something, but we didn't bother. It was awesome. Also, as a young man we met pointed out, the sleeping is excellent in Tuktuk because "Tuktuk no Wahwah" - meaning that there is no 5am call to prayer to wake you up. They are mostly Christian in fact.
The local people were also having a 4 day long wedding while we were there. There were giant woks full of food, dancing late into the night, flower arrangements, and fancily dressed people coming from both directions via motorbike (there's only one road around the island). The party straddled the main road, so you had no choice but to walk through it and soak up some of the party atmosphere and interesting traditions going on. After a couple of days, we were waiting to get our laundry from a spot near the festivities, watching a strange dance involving baskets balanced on people's heads and lots of hand waving. A young reveller from the village leaned over and asked if this was what funerals were like where we come from. "Oh, you mean weddings?" Kate responded. No, he said, this was a funeral. The woman had been 94 years old, so they were celebrating - with more than 150 family members in attendance. If it were a young person, it would not be so happy, but she was old so they have a four day long party. "So...this is a funeral?" We still could not believe it, but it did explain why we hadn't spotted the bride and groom yet.
Anyway, if you're anywhere close, go to Lake Toba. Its in the top 10. However, do your damnedest to avoid Medan, where we had to spend a night on either end of our Toba trip and generally wanted to kill ourselves. And there is much Wahwah when you stay between the giant masque and the karaoke bar in Medan.
According to locals, tourism all over Sumatra has been down since the late nineties - and we were persistently questioned about why westerners we're coming there anymore. We maintain that it is simply far, far away from the U.S., but the truth is also that no one thinks of going to Sumatra on vacation. But you should! Its fantastic. There were very few tourists around, and we basically biked around the edge of the island, swam in the perfectly clear fresh water, read our books, and ate tasty food. We guess you can go to a waterfall or some hotsprings or something, but we didn't bother. It was awesome. Also, as a young man we met pointed out, the sleeping is excellent in Tuktuk because "Tuktuk no Wahwah" - meaning that there is no 5am call to prayer to wake you up. They are mostly Christian in fact.
The local people were also having a 4 day long wedding while we were there. There were giant woks full of food, dancing late into the night, flower arrangements, and fancily dressed people coming from both directions via motorbike (there's only one road around the island). The party straddled the main road, so you had no choice but to walk through it and soak up some of the party atmosphere and interesting traditions going on. After a couple of days, we were waiting to get our laundry from a spot near the festivities, watching a strange dance involving baskets balanced on people's heads and lots of hand waving. A young reveller from the village leaned over and asked if this was what funerals were like where we come from. "Oh, you mean weddings?" Kate responded. No, he said, this was a funeral. The woman had been 94 years old, so they were celebrating - with more than 150 family members in attendance. If it were a young person, it would not be so happy, but she was old so they have a four day long party. "So...this is a funeral?" We still could not believe it, but it did explain why we hadn't spotted the bride and groom yet.
Anyway, if you're anywhere close, go to Lake Toba. Its in the top 10. However, do your damnedest to avoid Medan, where we had to spend a night on either end of our Toba trip and generally wanted to kill ourselves. And there is much Wahwah when you stay between the giant masque and the karaoke bar in Medan.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Wild Orangutans!
We saw orangutans in the wild! Let me explain: We flew from Yogyakarta to Jakarta, then to Medan (in northern Sumatra), from where we took a bus to Bukit Lewang, a small mountain town on the edge of a national park. On the bus, we met a friendly guide named Eddie, who told us about trekking options in Bukit Lewang. Since Eddie was surprisingly unsketchy and unpushy, we decided to go on a two day, one night trek into the jungle, in hopes of seeing some orangutans.
Bukit Lewang had been a thriving tourist town on the edge of a lovely river, surrounded by jungles where wild orangutans and other amazing animals roam. In November, 2003, a huge flood basically wiped out the town, killing a third of its residents and closing many hotels, restuarants, etc. Since then, its been slowly rebuilding, at about a quarter of its original capacity now 5 years later. However, its an exceedingly charming town, with thin suspension bridges spanning the river and connecting the two halves of the town. Small shops line the now-reinforced banks, looking down on the clear water running below. It was the perfect place to land in after a long day of travel and a long week of Javan cities.
We set off early the next morning for the national park, with our two guides and two german girls rounding out the trekking group. After about an hour of trekking, we saw our first orangutan, munching leaves in a tree about 20 feet over our heads. Unlike their monkey cousins, orangutans (who are apes, not monkeys - we're learning so much!) live and travel alone, only getting together to mate. This orangutan was a huge adult male, probably about 25 years old, and as we watched he looked down on us with strangely human eyes. He swung around, crossing to different trees, hanging from one foot, entertaining us for the better part of an hour. We hiked on and came across 7 more orangutans that afternoon, including 2 pairs of mothers and babies. Orangutan moms care for their children for 5 years, until they are ready to venture out on their own, and much of this time the little apes cling on to their mothers as they swing through the trees. It was incredible. We also saw gibons, macacks, and a giant monitor lizard (which was about 4 1/2 feet long and looked totally prehistoric). Eddie teased us by offering us "jungle ice cream" - which turned out to be terrible tasting bark from the quinine tree. I'll take malaria over that disgusting bark any day.
We got into camp in the late afternoon, and after the hot and humid jungle, were rewarded with a swim in the river. The porters had set up camp for us and had tea ready (which really is a nice way to camp!) and we spent the evening listening to the guides tell jokes and do card tricks. The porter/chef made a delicious dinner of chicken and curry (and not so delicious fishy tempe), which we happily ate before retiring to the tent. In the morning, we all awoke to a troop of monkeys drinking in the river, numbering about 15 in total. Kate went down to the river to brush her teeth, thinking the monkeys would run away, but one bared its teeth and growled at her instead, which was hilarious to everyone except Kate. We hung around and had a lazy breakfast before hiking down to the bigger river for a swim. Finally, we loaded onto an innertube raft type thing with all our gear and rafted back to town through the rapids. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the Sumatrans playing in the river, since it was Saturday and everyone was enjoying the day. Astonishingly, our two days in the jungle in the middle of the rainy season was rain free and full of sunshine!
This morning we got up and took a hot little bus to Medan, where we're spending the night before heading to Lake Toba in the morning. From the balcony of our hostel, you can see the city's beautiful central masque and the mall across the street with its giant MacDonald's golden arches. That and the becak drivers (motorcycle with sidecar used like a taxi - the Sumatran tuktuk) constantly asking if you want a ride pretty much sum up Medan.
Bukit Lewang had been a thriving tourist town on the edge of a lovely river, surrounded by jungles where wild orangutans and other amazing animals roam. In November, 2003, a huge flood basically wiped out the town, killing a third of its residents and closing many hotels, restuarants, etc. Since then, its been slowly rebuilding, at about a quarter of its original capacity now 5 years later. However, its an exceedingly charming town, with thin suspension bridges spanning the river and connecting the two halves of the town. Small shops line the now-reinforced banks, looking down on the clear water running below. It was the perfect place to land in after a long day of travel and a long week of Javan cities.
We set off early the next morning for the national park, with our two guides and two german girls rounding out the trekking group. After about an hour of trekking, we saw our first orangutan, munching leaves in a tree about 20 feet over our heads. Unlike their monkey cousins, orangutans (who are apes, not monkeys - we're learning so much!) live and travel alone, only getting together to mate. This orangutan was a huge adult male, probably about 25 years old, and as we watched he looked down on us with strangely human eyes. He swung around, crossing to different trees, hanging from one foot, entertaining us for the better part of an hour. We hiked on and came across 7 more orangutans that afternoon, including 2 pairs of mothers and babies. Orangutan moms care for their children for 5 years, until they are ready to venture out on their own, and much of this time the little apes cling on to their mothers as they swing through the trees. It was incredible. We also saw gibons, macacks, and a giant monitor lizard (which was about 4 1/2 feet long and looked totally prehistoric). Eddie teased us by offering us "jungle ice cream" - which turned out to be terrible tasting bark from the quinine tree. I'll take malaria over that disgusting bark any day.
We got into camp in the late afternoon, and after the hot and humid jungle, were rewarded with a swim in the river. The porters had set up camp for us and had tea ready (which really is a nice way to camp!) and we spent the evening listening to the guides tell jokes and do card tricks. The porter/chef made a delicious dinner of chicken and curry (and not so delicious fishy tempe), which we happily ate before retiring to the tent. In the morning, we all awoke to a troop of monkeys drinking in the river, numbering about 15 in total. Kate went down to the river to brush her teeth, thinking the monkeys would run away, but one bared its teeth and growled at her instead, which was hilarious to everyone except Kate. We hung around and had a lazy breakfast before hiking down to the bigger river for a swim. Finally, we loaded onto an innertube raft type thing with all our gear and rafted back to town through the rapids. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the Sumatrans playing in the river, since it was Saturday and everyone was enjoying the day. Astonishingly, our two days in the jungle in the middle of the rainy season was rain free and full of sunshine!
This morning we got up and took a hot little bus to Medan, where we're spending the night before heading to Lake Toba in the morning. From the balcony of our hostel, you can see the city's beautiful central masque and the mall across the street with its giant MacDonald's golden arches. That and the becak drivers (motorcycle with sidecar used like a taxi - the Sumatran tuktuk) constantly asking if you want a ride pretty much sum up Medan.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Joe-gjah AKA Yogyajakarta
We left the flooded and soggy Solo by a quick and easy train ride to Yogya (pronounced Joe-gjah). Upon our arrival into this bustling art and culture metropolis we walked around and saw the big sites first. We visited the Kraton, the Sultans palace and walled city compound, which was largely like the Kings palace in Solo but a bit grander - 'same same but different' as they say. Both the sultans and the kings of these provinces are just figureheads; icons of a past era but with no political power. After the Kraton we headed for the nearby Bird Market which is exactly what it sounds like: hundreds of small birds for sale in beautiful bamboo and wooden cages for sale. Indonesians love having birds around their homes, restaurants and guesthouses as decoration and good luck. Exhausted from a morning of wandering, we took a Becek (small pedi-cab, very cheap and everyone uses 'em) back for beers and cards. The rain and heat here are a deadly duo that really zap your energy in the late afternoon but make a perfect excuse for and early and leisurely cocktail hour. I'll remind you that 'cocktail' is somewhat of a misnomer here - liquor is rarely on menus and is VERY expensive i.e. we saw a bottle of Carlo Rossi wine for 40 USD in solo.
For our cultural evening, we went to an traditional Javanese puppet show, the kind behind a screen with a full gamelon orchestra and a single puppeteer who does the voices and characters. We arrived early and had a tour of the puppets with the artist - an enthusiastic guy in sweatpants and a few dreadlocks and a similar number of teeth. The puppets are quite beautiful and amazingly ornate.
We sat down, the only audience members, and waited for the show to begin. The music was warming up, the puppets leaned against the screen and the sound system was being tweaked. Twenty minutes later we realized that the show indeed had begun on time and we were watching it already. A Japanese tour group came in and were actually more entertaining I'm afraid to say. We left after giving it a good 45 minutes. The city of Yogya could do with a reassessment of it's only museum's representation of this traditional Javanese art. I'd like to give a shout-out to my dad right here; Dad, your shadow puppets really trump those shown at the museum in Yogya, Java. Thought you should know that.
After leaving the show, we strolled through the annual carnival going on outside the nearby Kraton. Ah carnivals are oh so universal: fried food, popcorn, awkward teenagers on dates and glowing ferris wheels, there was even cotton candy.
The following day was our journey to Borobodor which is a giant Buddhist stone temple just outside town. We savvy travelers decided to take the public bus as it's so much cheaper. With only one bus change, we figured no problem. And really, it wasn't too much of a problem because the pick-pocket dropped my wallet when he was grabbing it out of Kyle's fanny pack (yes - we purchased a fanny pack, no we have no shame at all). Kyle grabbed the wallet and we deboarded at a strange station in order to catch our second bus. Both of us clearly shaken but thanking our stars he didn't succeed, we got on the next bus where we were likely charged at least 3 times the usual cost of the bus because we are tourists - or maybe just because we are tourists who carry fanny packs. Arriving a Borobodor we just decided to take a deep breath and enjoy the rare rainy-season sunshine we were being blessed with for our temple viewing day. Borobodor was indeed an incredible sight and the grounds were beautifully green and well maintained.
I'd like to take a minute now to discuss being American in Indonesia. Here is a conversation that takes place nearly hourly here:
"Where you from?"
"America"
"Ah OBAMA!!"
"Yeah - Yay Obama!!"
"Obama - he's my friend" (or some other reference to the fact that our president spent a number of years on Java as a kid.)
It's also not uncommon for people to start talking to us to practice English. In fact many teenagers proclaim this when stopping us on the street "I am going to talk to you to practice my English. What is your name? Where are you from? Do you like Yogya?". Most often, it's really endearing and brave so we try to be as encouraging as possible.
Prambaramayanarama
Not to be confused with the awesome band from the 1980s, our day yesterday was a Pramba-ramayana-rama. Actually, it started with a trip down Malioboro Road to the local market, where we were seeking out some batik creations. Somehow, in the course of our browsing, we became accompanied by a small mustachiod Yogyakartan who proceeded to "assist" us as we searched through literally hundreds of batik stands. This little man took it upon himself to show us through the entire market, hijacking our shopping trip in the process and pointing out everything from spices to sponges. He was also learning new english words like green bean and place mat. Totally unsuccessful on the batik front, although now aware that the moomoo is alive and well, we bid our little friend farewell and headed back to our neighborhood, stopping for a little advice at the tourist office.
We soon learned that the best performances of traditional javanese dance are held at Prambanan, a 9th century Hindu temple about 15 kilometers outside of town. Since we were going to check it out anyway, we hopped on the bus (which had a station and punch cards and was very unlike the bus to Borobodor - we were impressed) and went for the temple-ballet twofer. We managed to convince the ticket lady that at least one of us was a student, and got that person into the temple for half price (take that, UNESCO!). As you may recall, Yogyakarta had a pretty serious earthquake in 2006, which toppled some of the temples of Prambanan. The temple overseers seem oddly proud of this, and there are extensive signs explaining what happened and the subsequent response by archiologists and preservationists. They did a fairly great job of repairing the ruins, although you aren't allowed inside or next to all of them. Still, points to Prambanan for both recovery and cool temples -- we're getting a little hard to impress after the zillions of wats we've visited, but we oohed, ahhed, and snapped pictures at this one.
We then walked through the rain to the theater, where the Ramayana is performed twice a week for enthusiastic crowds. In the dry season, they perform it outside with Prambanan in the background, but these days its next door at an indoor theater. After the rather disappointing "puppetry" of the previous night, we were cautiously optimistic about the ballet, which turned out to be spectacular. The monkey army and evil gods were certainly the highlight, and though we missed the extreme eye movement of the Balinese style, we couldn't help but admire the poppin'-n-lockin' of the dance fighting scenes. Good conquered evil, and it was kind of like "Java Romeo and Juliet, but with happy end," as everyone keeps telling us. Except that it is totally not like Romeo and Juliet at all, but more like a complicated ancient Hindu epic.
Today, we thought about renting bikes and hitting the back alleys of Yogya, but found there to be no bikes available, and so tramped around the back alleys and down to another neighborhood, where we got the greatest cup of coffee possible. A long becak (pedicab) ride home showed us some more of the main streets of Yogya, and we rounded out the day selling books and buying postcards (and a new deck of cards!) in our neighborhood. Tomorrow we head via plane to Medan, in northern Sumatra, for some rural excursions.
By the way, Kate and I have played so many hands of cards that we finally had to invent our own game. It kicks ass and mystifies waiters, who peer questioningly over our shoulders and shake their heads in wonder. Its alternatively called "Take Five" and "Kate Can't Speak Spanish." Be excited.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Solo Bike Trip
Our bike adventure in the outskirts of Solo was incredible. It started with our fantastic guide, Ajip, taking us through the somewhat flooded streets of the city. After torrential rain the night before, there was about 2 feet of water on some streets, which we biked through along with the rest of the Saturday morning traffic. People were rather non-shalant about the American-emergency-level flooding, although a somewhat toothless gentleman did take it upon himself to wade waist deep and haphazardly direct traffic. Although they usually cross the river on a bamboo raft with the bikes, we had to take the bridge out of town because the river was dangerously high. We first stopped at a tofu making house, where soybeans were heated and pressed and heated and made into tofu in old window frames.
Next we went to the gamelan making house, which was absolutely amazing. A team of 8 guys takes a sheet of bronze about the size of your arms spread all the way apart (in the "the fish was this big" way) and turn it into a musical instrument by doing the following: the plate is set on a pile of burning coals (which is kept burning with a leaf blower in an adjacent hole feeding it fresh oxygen) and heated to glowing red, with one guy handling the super hot plate. Another guy then grabs the giant smoldering plate and hauls it over to a makeshift platform of fresh mud, where 4 guys with 20+ pound metal hammers are waiting to pound the edges out in a terrifying 1-2-3-4 swinging movement. Yet another guy continually turns the plate while the hammering guys hammer away for about a minute, until the plate cools too much and it is yet again thrown into the pile of charcoal. Process repeats until the bronze plate has become the right shape for the gamelan - it takes about a day for each gong to be completed. All of these guys are barefoot and most also have a cigarette dangling from their mouths the whole time. This unbelievable process happens in a very hot, very sooty room with a charcoal floor.
The gamelan is then given to another guy who is the tuner - he hammers out the inside of the instrument until it reaches the perfect pitch, which he recognizes by ear, even though his job is incredibly loud and must damage his hearing. Yet another guy then polishes the top of the gong until its beautiful and shiny and ready to sell. A full gamelan orchestra requires 98 gamelans, each of which is made in this traditional way. Craziness. All of the guys that worked at this production house were from the same family, a family that had been making gamelans this way for generations.
We then biked along through the rice fields to a place where they make arak (cane liquor), tempe, and rice crackers. Along the way, innumerable children chased us and shouted "Hello!", giggling with each other when we said hello back. We stopped for lunch at a little roadside restaurant where Ajip explained some of the more intricate Javanese dishes and Kate had the best strawberry juice in the world. We finished our trip at a batik workshop and saw all of the traditional ways to make batik (bark for dye, hand painted wax) and the ridiculously intricate patterns they create. Fantastically educational day in Solo!
Later that night, we went to the recommended "dance performance" at a nearby theater. The javanese, like the balinese, are all about their traditional arts, especially dance and shadow puppets. It being Saturday night, the place was packed with local teens talking and texting on their cell phones. The performance was largely unintelligible and once of the strangest demonstrations of dance imaginable - overweight men in weird masks pointing and stomping their feet to intermittent musical accompaniment. Cultural, certainly, and still worth the 30 cents apiece, but we hope the Yogyakarta performances with me a little more...magestic. We left the next morning for the hour train ride to Yogyakarta.
Next we went to the gamelan making house, which was absolutely amazing. A team of 8 guys takes a sheet of bronze about the size of your arms spread all the way apart (in the "the fish was this big" way) and turn it into a musical instrument by doing the following: the plate is set on a pile of burning coals (which is kept burning with a leaf blower in an adjacent hole feeding it fresh oxygen) and heated to glowing red, with one guy handling the super hot plate. Another guy then grabs the giant smoldering plate and hauls it over to a makeshift platform of fresh mud, where 4 guys with 20+ pound metal hammers are waiting to pound the edges out in a terrifying 1-2-3-4 swinging movement. Yet another guy continually turns the plate while the hammering guys hammer away for about a minute, until the plate cools too much and it is yet again thrown into the pile of charcoal. Process repeats until the bronze plate has become the right shape for the gamelan - it takes about a day for each gong to be completed. All of these guys are barefoot and most also have a cigarette dangling from their mouths the whole time. This unbelievable process happens in a very hot, very sooty room with a charcoal floor.
The gamelan is then given to another guy who is the tuner - he hammers out the inside of the instrument until it reaches the perfect pitch, which he recognizes by ear, even though his job is incredibly loud and must damage his hearing. Yet another guy then polishes the top of the gong until its beautiful and shiny and ready to sell. A full gamelan orchestra requires 98 gamelans, each of which is made in this traditional way. Craziness. All of the guys that worked at this production house were from the same family, a family that had been making gamelans this way for generations.
We then biked along through the rice fields to a place where they make arak (cane liquor), tempe, and rice crackers. Along the way, innumerable children chased us and shouted "Hello!", giggling with each other when we said hello back. We stopped for lunch at a little roadside restaurant where Ajip explained some of the more intricate Javanese dishes and Kate had the best strawberry juice in the world. We finished our trip at a batik workshop and saw all of the traditional ways to make batik (bark for dye, hand painted wax) and the ridiculously intricate patterns they create. Fantastically educational day in Solo!
Later that night, we went to the recommended "dance performance" at a nearby theater. The javanese, like the balinese, are all about their traditional arts, especially dance and shadow puppets. It being Saturday night, the place was packed with local teens talking and texting on their cell phones. The performance was largely unintelligible and once of the strangest demonstrations of dance imaginable - overweight men in weird masks pointing and stomping their feet to intermittent musical accompaniment. Cultural, certainly, and still worth the 30 cents apiece, but we hope the Yogyakarta performances with me a little more...magestic. We left the next morning for the hour train ride to Yogyakarta.
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Duo in Solo
After the volcano (and realizing that it was an hour earlier than we thought - tricky Java!) we got on a minibus to return to sea level and perhaps a room larger than a roomy park bench. Once again, we found ourselves in the fun-to-say town of Probbolinggo, en route to somewhere. We hopped a bus to Surabaya, which we quickly realized was not the metropolis for us, and after zooming across town in a cab, hopped a train to Solo (which we managed to make thanks to Kate's still-unadjusted watch). By 8pm, we were safely ensonced in our new hostel, and again eating our first meal since before 8 am. You'd think we would have learned after 3 months on the road to pack some snacks...
Let's talk Java: Java is the main island in the Indonesian archipelago, home to more than half of Indonesia's population (which is a whopping 225 million people - 4th most populace nation after China, India, and the U.S.). A whole bunch of these people live in Jakarta (where we're not going), but immediately upon arrival anywhere on the island you can feel the density around you. Surabaya, for example, has 3 million people in it, and who has ever heard of Surabaya? So these are some big cities we're talking about. Oh, and most people are Muslim, although there's also a lot of Javanese culture that is more hinduism/buddhism/animist in nature. They meditate and make offerings like the Balinese, but wear head scarves and go to the masque. As if to emphasize the point, the call to prayer can currently be heard over the rain outside.
Solo is in central Java, about an hour or two from Yogyakarta. It is a strange urban mix of traffic and no restuarants, batik markets and eager pedicabs. We tried to go to the kraton (sultan's palace) today, but its closed on Fridays (!) so we settled for the King's palace, where the royal family is still in residence. A friendly guide told us about all sorts of royal objects (including male and female gold chastity belts which look painful - please note the male belt, which had spikes, was broken) and insisted we take many, many pictures. Tomorrow we are headed out on a bicycle tour of the surrounding villages, seeing Batik makers and tofu makers and arak (liquor) makers and gamelan makers and roof tile makers and Javan countryside.
Let's talk Java: Java is the main island in the Indonesian archipelago, home to more than half of Indonesia's population (which is a whopping 225 million people - 4th most populace nation after China, India, and the U.S.). A whole bunch of these people live in Jakarta (where we're not going), but immediately upon arrival anywhere on the island you can feel the density around you. Surabaya, for example, has 3 million people in it, and who has ever heard of Surabaya? So these are some big cities we're talking about. Oh, and most people are Muslim, although there's also a lot of Javanese culture that is more hinduism/buddhism/animist in nature. They meditate and make offerings like the Balinese, but wear head scarves and go to the masque. As if to emphasize the point, the call to prayer can currently be heard over the rain outside.
Solo is in central Java, about an hour or two from Yogyakarta. It is a strange urban mix of traffic and no restuarants, batik markets and eager pedicabs. We tried to go to the kraton (sultan's palace) today, but its closed on Fridays (!) so we settled for the King's palace, where the royal family is still in residence. A friendly guide told us about all sorts of royal objects (including male and female gold chastity belts which look painful - please note the male belt, which had spikes, was broken) and insisted we take many, many pictures. Tomorrow we are headed out on a bicycle tour of the surrounding villages, seeing Batik makers and tofu makers and arak (liquor) makers and gamelan makers and roof tile makers and Javan countryside.
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